A Stillness Beneath the Tinsel

The mug was too hot against his fingers, even through the chipped ceramic. Leo shifted, watching the condensation creep up the glass of the window, distorting the already blurry streetlights into smudged yellow moons. He’d been told, a dozen times, to stop hunching. Shoulders back. Chin up. But the cold seeped in anyway, a persistent chill that had nothing to do with the actual temperature of the room.

Brenda hummed from the kitchen, a saccharine Christmas carol about bells and snowmen. It grated, a little, like fingernails on a blackboard, but he just stirred his tea, a faint swirl of steam rising and dissolving. His mother was a force of nature at Christmas, a whirlwind of cinnamon and glitter, determined to conjure joy whether it wanted to come or not. This year, it felt less like conjuring and more like a desperate exorcism.

The scent of roasting turkey began to filter through, heavy and rich. Leo’s stomach gave a quiet rumble, but the thought of eating felt like another chore. He could hear the clink of ice from the other room – his father, Patrick, already on his second rye and ginger. A Christmas tradition, like the carolling and the relentless cheer.

He scraped a thumbnail over a loose thread on his jumper. It was an old one, grey wool, a bit threadbare at the elbows. Comforting, in its worn familiarity. Everything else felt… amplified. The bright red of the stockings hung on the mantel, the too-loud laughter from the TV playing a generic holiday movie, the sheer, crushing weight of everything being *perfect*.

Beneath the Garland

“Leo, darling? Could you set the table for three?” Brenda’s voice, bright and unwavering, cut through the quiet. He sighed, a tiny puff of air that misted the window pane for a second before vanishing. “Yeah, Mum,” he called back, pushing off the sill, his joints cracking faintly.

The dining room was already bathed in the soft glow of candles and more fairy lights, draped over the oversized buffet. Crystal glasses gleamed, cutlery lay in neat, unsettlingly precise rows. He picked up a fork, the cold metal surprisingly heavy. His reflection shimmered in the polished surface of the table – a tired, pale face, eyes that looked a bit too wide. He quickly looked away.

“Everything alright?” Patrick emerged from the living room, glass in hand, the amber liquid glinting under the warm lights. His father’s face was already flushed, a smile plastered on a little too tightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, lad.”

Leo managed a weak smile. “Just… tired. Long day.” Which was a lie. He’d spent most of the day staring at the ceiling, trying to outrun the silence in his own head. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full of things he didn’t want to hear.

“Well, Christmas dinner will perk you up,” Patrick said, clinking his glass against Leo’s shoulder. The sound made Leo jump, and some of the cutlery clattered onto the tablecloth. “Whoops. Butterfingers.” Patrick chuckled, a bit too loud, then retreated to the living room, humming off-key.

Leo knelt, gathering the fallen spoons. The floorboards creaked under his weight, cold against his knees. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to just stay there, curled up on the rug, to let the festive noise wash over him and leave him untouched. But the turkey was almost ready, and Brenda would call again.

The dinner was… an event. Brenda, effervescent, recounting anecdotes from her office party. Patrick, interjecting with boisterous laughter and slightly inappropriate jokes. Leo, picking at his food, offering monosyllabic replies when directly addressed. He felt like a poorly executed puppet, going through the motions, a hollow space where joy was supposed to reside.

“You’re very quiet tonight, sweetie,” Brenda said, her brow furrowing slightly, a hairline crack in her determined cheer. She reached across the table, her hand resting briefly on his. Her fingers were warm, a stark contrast to the coolness that permeated him.

“Just enjoying the food, Mum,” Leo lied, again. He pushed a pea around his plate with his fork. “It’s really good.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “He’s probably just still shaken up about… you know.” He glanced at Brenda, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes. Brenda’s smile tightened, a fraction. The air grew heavy, thick with the unspoken. Leo felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a band of cold iron constricting his breath.

“Let’s not talk about that tonight,” Brenda said, her voice a little too bright. “It’s Christmas Eve! A time for happiness and making new memories.” She squeezed his hand again, a plea in her touch. He pulled his hand away gently, reaching for his water glass.

Later, much later, after the last of the plum pudding had been cleared and Brenda had insisted on one last round of carols from the old vinyl player, Leo found himself back at the window. The snow was falling again, huge, silent flakes drifting down, coating the street in a fresh, undisturbed layer of white. The air felt colder, sharper. The fairy lights still hummed, a low, persistent thrum.

His parents had retreated to bed, a faint murmur of voices drifting from their room, followed by the soft click of their door. He was alone with the quiet, and the weight of another Christmas almost past. He pulled out his phone, the screen a sudden, unwelcome brightness in the dim room. No new messages. Just the usual group chat with old schoolmates, full of memes and drunken holiday wishes he hadn't contributed to.

He scrolled through his contacts, pausing over a few names, then shaking his head. Who would even understand? Who could he even tell? The words felt too big, too shapeless to articulate. It wasn't just sadness. It was… an absence. A hollow space that Christmas, with all its forced cheer and glittering distractions, only seemed to highlight.

He remembered the look on his mother’s face when Patrick had mentioned ‘you know’. The quick, almost frantic tightening around her eyes. They thought they were protecting him, he knew. But some things couldn't be protected from, couldn't be swept under a rug with tinsel and festive platitudes. Some things just… lingered.

He went to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of cheap sparkling water. The bubbles felt like tiny explosions on his tongue, a brief, sharp distraction. He walked back to the living room, the quiet pressing in again. The tree stood sentinel, its ornaments glinting softly, each one a memory he wasn't sure he wanted to touch.

He picked up a small, hand-painted wooden reindeer. Its antler was chipped. He remembered painting it in primary school, all clumsy enthusiasm and bright, primary colours. His mother had kept it. She kept everything. A shrine of curated joy, carefully maintained, even as the foundations crumbled.

A sudden, sharp vibration in his hand made him jump. His phone. An unknown number. He frowned, his thumb hovering over the green call icon. It was almost one in the morning. No one called at one in the morning on Christmas Eve unless it was… important. Or terrible.

He hesitated for a long moment, the little reindeer clutched tightly in his other hand. The hum of the fairy lights seemed to intensify, a high-pitched whine that settled behind his ears. He thought of his mother's strained smile, his father's too-loud laughter. He thought of the gaping hole Christmas always seemed to expose.

His finger pressed the screen, almost against his will. The phone rang once, twice. Then a voice, low and raspy, crackled through the speaker. Not a voice he recognised. A voice that sent a shiver, cold and unwelcome, straight down his spine.

"Leo? Did you get the package?"

The question hung in the quiet, thick with a strange kind of menace. The reindeer slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud, its tiny wooden antler snapping clean off.

The Unopened Gift

He stood frozen, the phone heavy against his ear, the broken reindeer at his feet. The voice had a low, gravelly quality, like something dragged over concrete. It was unfamiliar, yet the way it had spoken his name, the chilling implication of a 'package,' lodged itself deep in his gut. A sickening dread coiled there, a cold knot tightening with each passing second of silence on the line. He could hear faint static, then a click. They had hung up.

His hand still trembled, the phone feeling lighter now, a dead weight. He stared at the blank screen, the unknown number still displayed. Who was that? What package? His mind raced, pulling at loose threads, trying to connect this sudden, bizarre intrusion to the quiet, gnawing anxieties that had been plaguing him for weeks, months even. Nothing. No logical explanation surfaced.

He dropped the phone onto the plush rug, letting it bounce once before settling silently. His eyes found the broken reindeer, lying on its side, the tiny antler detached and resting a few inches away. A silly, inconsequential trinket, yet its breakage felt like a physical manifestation of the fragile peace that had just been shattered. It was a tangible symbol of everything that felt just slightly off-kilter, everything that was cracking at the edges this festive season.

He bent down slowly, picking up the reindeer and its broken antler. The wood felt rough under his thumb. He traced the smooth, painted lines of its eye, then the jagged break where the antler had been. He knew his mother would be upset if she saw it. Another small imperfection in her carefully constructed, picture-perfect Christmas.

He stood there for a long time, the cold seeping deeper into his bones, the hum of the fairy lights now a relentless drone in his ears. The snow continued to fall outside, a relentless, silent curtain descending over the world. The house was quiet again, but it felt different now. The peaceful hum had been replaced by a tense silence, buzzing with an unspoken threat.

He walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. His reflection stared back, pale and hollow-eyed. The faint outline of the Christmas tree shimmered behind him, its bright lights mocking the sudden darkness that had settled within him. The package. The question echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent. What had they meant? And more importantly, who were 'they'?

A sudden, violent shiver wracked his body. It wasn't from the cold. It was the dawning, terrifying realization that whatever was coming, whatever this cryptic call foreshadowed, had just begun. And it had found him, here, in the quiet, artificial glow of Christmas Eve.

He looked out at the falling snow, pristine and pure. A perfect blank canvas. He wondered how long it would be before it was irrevocably stained.

The silence of the house pressed in, no longer comforting, but ominous. The cheerful hum of the lights now felt like a buzzing alarm, unheard by anyone but him. His parents were asleep, oblivious, dreaming of sugar plums and sleigh bells. He was awake, and the real world, the one they had all been so desperately trying to ignore, had just broken through the tinsel. And it was asking about a package.